


Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

by number_of_the_beast_is_666



Category: Original Work
Genre: Burning, Gen, Vampires, tw burning to death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/number_of_the_beast_is_666/pseuds/number_of_the_beast_is_666
Summary: "In what distant deeps or skies.Burnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand, dare he seize the fire?"- William Blake, "The Tyger"He wakes up in a desert.





	Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright

Silence. A hush over the empty landscape. Just grey scenery under a sun-blushed sky.

The sun was rising over jagged mountains, not yet visible to the desert’s inhabitants.  
Small mice under the straggly brush, buzzing insects getting picked off by the early morning birds, those getting watched by the hungry eyes of bigger prey.

A man lies on the sandy dirt, flat on his back, arms splayed out. His skin seems grey in the shadow of the mountain, lifeless and still.

He turns, rolling onto his side, taking in a wheezing breath, expelling dust and stale air. He is dressed in shirtsleeves, tattered and stained with sweat (amongst other things), and crumpled tweed trousers - cheap clothes, and never worn before this time.

Covered in dust and sand, he staggers to his feet, taking a few stumbling steps before falling back onto his side. He groans in pain, sucking in air and turning onto his back.

He lies back in defeat, letting out a harsh sob and squeezing his eyes closed tight.

The sun breaks the horizon, peering through the gaps in the rocky outcrops.

The man’s eyes snap open wide. The sheen of sweat already on his face is visible now, beads of perspiration glistening in the growing light.

He twists, rising onto his elbows and pushing himself up onto his knees. The first rays of sunlight hit his forehead, reflecting the sun back in his eyes. His forehead, exposed to the light, blisters. The man lets out a yelp, diving to the side, back into the dirt, although keeping himself upright this time.  
He reaches a hand up to his singed skin, cringing at the tentative touch.

The only sound in the desert is his quiet gasp and his quieter sob. He knows what can happen. What will happen.

But he can try. 

He finds his feet once again, grasping at his arms, holding them over his face. He lets out a yell as the sun hits his hands, morphing into a guttural scream as the light runs its hands down his back. His shirt does nothing to protect his flesh.

He is running. Or at least, trying to. Stumbling like a drunk, arms thrown over his face and knees knocking together as he tries to outrun the sun.

He falls, feet caught on withered shrubbery, hands outstretching to stop himself from colliding with the ground. Light hits his face, eliciting another grating cry.

He hits the floor, breath leaving his lungs and limbs going limp. He doesn’t move, but cries. Screaming and sobbing, tearing streaming down his reddened face.

Blisters form, then burst, leaving blood and fluid running down his skin. His clothes help little to none after he falls.

His cries quieten, not because the pain relieves, but his throat is burning. The skin scorching off leaving his vocal cords exposed, startlingly blush pink against his charring skin and rivulets of blood, like a fish’s belly.

This, in turn, leads to him coughing up blood, Weak, wet coughs; spittle and blood flecks staining the khaki-coloured sand. Thick blood drips down his chin, mixing with the blood already pooling in his clavicle. 

He makes a feeble attempt to escape, twisting and writhing, grasping at twigs and dry grass; anything to get rid of this pain.

The sun is still rising, growing stronger and soaring higher in the sky, which has warmed up to a brilliant chlorine blue. The sun is getting stronger, and he is getting weaker.

The man's shirt (or more accurately, what remains of it) clings to his skin, wet with blood and sweat and fluid, almost melding with his flesh, melting into his skin.

At some point, he stops.  
First, he stops trying to escape.  
Then, he stops moving.  
Then breathing.  
Then burning.  
Until, finally, what remains of this man, this living, breathing embodiment of mortality, is nothing more than ash, and the faint scent of burning hanging in the air, without a breeze to move it.

And yet, everything carries on. The sun beats down on the desert, the vultures circle, drawn in by the smell, and, at some point, cicadas start buzzing. Their gentle hum breaks the silence of the desert, but after such noise, could it ever be silent again?


End file.
